In Meo Animo
by hemlocke1
Summary: Exploration of an affect satire can have...Read. Review. Rant ;). You know the drill... Second part added.
1. Default Chapter

A/N: This probably won't be received well (what an idea. Something in the Bible section that won't be received well ;) ), but I'm writing it anyway (obviously). Honest opinions are appreciated. True flames are amusing. And, of course, glowing reviews full of my praise aren't bad, either…

The fire flickered. Orange tendrils danced around and around, bringing with them streams of smoke. Andariel winced as it stung her eyes. They watered fiercely; some of the water slipped down her face. She left it there. Let them think she was crying. It wasn't far from the truth. 

The scene in front of her whirled by in large blobs of colour, bold reds and shimmering blues gaily adorning the faces of the actors. Actors made to look like her. Andariel winced as one mockingly shouted a comment to another, voicing the exact thing a friend of hers had said earlier. The audience hooted appreciatively.

Andariel drew her hood farther over her face, taking care to hide her ears. She didn't want to be recognised—it would only encourage greater mockery. She had come to watch, to learn, to see what it was others disliked so strongly about her kind. She had come expecting to be ridiculed. And the ridicule was occurring. But the learning…the learning was not. 

The fire loomed brighter as another log rolled into it. Suddenly she looked up; an actor's gaze caught hers. Her breath stopped. His eyes gleamed in the firelight as he stared at her with cold intensity. She couldn't tear her eyes away. The mocking light in his eyes deepened into harsh hatred and she knew he'd recognised her.

"But of course _they_ can't hear it," he shouted out suddenly, his voice high pitched and whiny. "_Their_ ears are too inferior to ours!" The audience roared. Andariel felt sick. She stumbled to her feet, gripping her cloak tightly in her fists.

"That's right," the actor said softly. "Run away. Go complain to your race, have them pat you on the head. Tell them we're persecuting you. Your kind never has been able to understand the concept of satire."

Stifling the urge to bash his head in, Andariel turned and fled. Her heart twisted beneath her ribs, beating painfully. She wished she hadn't gone at all. 

What had she hoped to learn? She already knew the things she and her people did came across as arrogant. She already knew the fault lay largely with them. She already knew they were hated for it. 

Andariel stopped by a large tree, her lips pressing together. She knew why she had gone. She had hoped that, somehow, her going would show that they weren't all the same. That some of them did want to change. She should've known it wouldn't be received that way—how could it, when hatred hounded behind the mockery? 

Another round of laughter rose into the air behind her. Turning her head, Andariel gazed at the distant, colourful scene. Would things ever change? 

A/N: This piece isn't directed toward any particular person or story (in other words: this isn't written in response to Lucifer's story _The Persecution Chronicles_, which it could easily be interpreted as. So don't use that assumption as the impetus for a flame). It's a response to things that have happened in this section for years. Yes, I have been hanging around this section that long. Andariel can represent any group in here (even though I did have a specific group in mind while writing her). Take from it what you will. 


	2. 2

A/N: *grin* A huge hug to Vashsunglasses, K2, Cherry Blossom, and Lucifer for reviewing. I rather forgot to mention that there are two parts to this…typical me. *shakes head at self*. So. Yus. Here's the second part :).

The water reflected his face, the image twisting eerily in the murky purple water. Grimacing, he turned the basin over and watched the water splash onto the dirt. 

He couldn't tell if the night had been a success or not. His face ached in the cold night air, his skin raw from his attempts to erase all the paint. The turn-out hadn't been bad. Many of the Draengal had shown up, though that number had dwindled remarkably as the night wore on. 

His mouth twisted upward in an amused grimace. Obviously the play had affected them. The girl immediately came to mind. His comment had shaken her, that was clear. And it was about bloody time.

How long had his kind gone on, making both subtle and direct comments? Their message couldn't have been much clearer. But the Draengal had not changed their ways—not in the least. If anything they had become more arrogant.

He grit his teeth and stared out at the river. He was sick of it. They were all sick of it. If that wasn't enough to convince the Draengal to change their ways, maybe making them see and hate it for themselves would. It was a slim chance. But it was a chance, and they would use it for what it was worth. 

The Draengal thought they were hated. They were right. But it was obvious they hadn't grown up learning that hate and love weren't that different. His people wouldn't hate the Draengal if they didn't care about them. Too much effort. No, they'd just ignore them.

If only the oafs would realise that. He hoped they would. The girl's eyes swam in front of his vision. Yes, he had hope.

The crickets chirped louder as he lay his head on the ground. An old school rhyme shone in his memory. It was very simple, but he liked it nonetheless. 

It may seem that satire

Only adds to the fire

And that is true

But if you think it through

You'll see that that makes

The fire's fuel take

Less time to burn out

A/N: Original? I'm sure not. *shrugs* I felt like exploring the same situation from two different viewpoints. This was the result. Hugs to all of you who review. (And yes, this should be all…unless my muse is planning a third part she hasn't told me about yet…)


End file.
